Christmas Shopaholic(78)

“What’s going on?” I say, bewildered. “Why are they all arriving now?”

“They’ve all come here to vote on you,” says Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf. “You’re the only item of interest. Good luck,” he adds casually. “Knock ’em dead.”

My legs are a bit wobbly, but I can’t give up now. I make my way to the front, and a ninety-three-year-old in a velvet smoking jacket claps me on the shoulder.

“Becky!” he says. “I was looking out for you! I’m Edwin’s friend John. I’m one of the chaps who seconded you. Best of luck. Edwin says you’ll do splendidly.”

“Oh, well, let’s hope so,” I say, with my most confident smile. “Thanks!”

At least I have some support. I approach the man with the white beard and lift my chin.

“How do you do,” I say politely. “I am Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood. First of all, I think your club is fabulous—”

“Thank you,” says the man, cutting me off coldly. “I am Sir Peter Leggett-Davey. You’ll have your turn to speak. Sit there, please.”

He points at a chair to the side, and I sit down on it, prickling with resentment. He doesn’t have to be so snooty. I feel all the more determined to get into this stupid club. I might even learn billiards.

“Good evening, to those who have just arrived,” says Sir Peter, surveying the audience. “Now we come to the most contentious item of the day: the application of this female person to join the club, supported by several members with us here today. This membership would, of course, require a change in our constitution, which has been proposed by Lord Edwin Tottle; please see the document now being circulated. And may I start by saying I think this a disgraceful idea.”

Disgraceful?

I feel a surge of indignation as he carries on talking about how special the club is and how females would ruin it and how Lord Edwin Tottle has always had a grudge against him, Sir Peter, as members will recall from the painful incident in 2002 regarding the sherry trolley.

OK. He really needs to get a life.

At last he stops speaking, and one after another of the ninety-three-year-olds stands up, saying all the same stuff, about tradition and sanctity and “facilities,” by which they mean loos. After a while I give up listening and google billiards cannon what is it?—although I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to work it into my speech.

“Mrs. Brandon, would you like to make a reply?” Sir Peter’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and my head bobs up. Shit. It’s my turn already.

“Yes!” I say in dignified tones. “Thank you so much. I am yours, et cetera.”

I make one more hopeless thrust into my bag, hoping I’ll find my speech—but it’s not there. I’ll have to wing it.

I walk slowly to the center of the space, turn to the audience, and say, “Good evening. I am Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood, fellow billiards lover.”

The whole room is silent, waiting for me to say more. I can even see Sidney loitering at the doorway to listen.

“I could talk about…cannons.” I spread my arms nonchalantly. “I could talk about how I was double-balked the other day. Nightmare!” I give a knowing little laugh. “However. Today I want to talk about…billiard balls,” I say in sudden inspiration. “Consider billiard balls. We polish them. We respect them. We play our beloved game with them. But we should learn from them.”

“What? What’s that?” barks a man in the front row who looks about 103, and his 93-year-old neighbor says loudly, “She says we should learn from billiard balls, Sir Denis.”

“After all, what is one billiard ball hitting another if not connection?” I continue. “Billiard balls don’t discriminate. Billiard balls are tolerant. They’re happy to roll anywhere on the table, see all sides, interact with any other ball, male or female. Or intersex,” I add after a moment’s thought.

“What’s she talking about?” demands Sir Denis, and his ninety-three-year-old neighbor practically shouts back, “Sex, Sir Denis!”

“Sex!” echoes Sir Denis, looking impressed.

“Billiard balls want to connect without prejudice,” I continue, trying to ignore them. “But billiards clubs do not.” I fix Sir Peter with my sternest gaze. “Billiards clubs say, ‘No, the red balls may not interact with the white balls, because red balls are male and white balls are female.’ And what happens? Nobody wins. The world is a worse place.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Brandon,” begins Sir Peter in icy tones, but I lift a hand to stop him.

“I haven’t finished yet,” I say firmly. “I stand before you, a passionate female billiards aficionado, not to mention lover of parlour music, who has been shut out of the greatest experience a billiards lover could know. To be a member of this hallowed club. And why? Because of an outdated, prejudicial rule that has no place in any true billiards lover’s heart. You don’t really want to turn me away. I can see it in your eyes. All of you.”

I move along the rows, catching the eye of each ninety-three-year-old in turn and lingering especially in front of Sir Denis, who beams up at me.

“What are you scared of?” I say more gently. “Be brave. Be true to what you believe. And let me into this club, where I will do my best to be worthy of it. Thank you.”